


No Likey Big Bang

by shutterbug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Dogs, Fireworks, Fourth of July, Friendship, Gen, Holidays, Male Friendship, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 08:24:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19663516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: Greg notices Tom's absence at a Fourth of July company party and soon discovers the reason why.





	No Likey Big Bang

Tom isn’t at the party. Greg notices. 

He congratulates himself. 

Then he berates himself. 

‘Jesus Christ, dude,’ he thinks. ‘Do you really think it matters?’ 

With a flute of champagne in hand, Greg searches for Shiv. 

No Shiv. Nowhere. 

She’s hard to miss with that ember-red hair. 

But he’s sure. She’s not here. And neither is Tom. 

The fact that Shiv isn’t here doesn’t surprise him, but that Tom is absent... _that_ surprises him. Tom wants to impress. And this--a Fourth of July shindig on the roof--this is an easy mark. A sure-fire way to show you’re on board, one of the team. A Good Ol’ Boy. 

That’s why Greg showed up. He _could_ have booked it home to his little, sad one bedroom--he was just grateful he hadn’t yet seen a roach--and played video games, ordered in, _anything_ but hob-knobbed with the rich-and-arrogant on a midtown rooftop. He had perfected a fake-sincere smile. He had learned how to shake a man’s hand with _just_ the right amount of gusto. 

But he hated the charade. 

He had a feeling--a _hunch_ \--that he wasn’t alone in that hatred. 

But hatred wouldn’t keep Tom away. He knows that. 

So he wonders: what gives? 

He could find out for himself. 

Sure, what the hell? 

He fumbles his way out of conversations, off the rooftop, and to Tom’s door. 

When the elevator doors open, Greg finds Tom leaning with a weary, sagging posture against the wall. “What do you want?” Tom asks. No pretense and no patience. 

Tom’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the same crisp button-down he wore to the office, now wrinkled. He strikes an imposing figure, Tom does. Surprisingly. At the office, he constantly fluctuates between servile and statuesque. But now, he looks as though he has taken on the weight of the universe, and Greg steps forward, ready to take some of his burden, but Tom backpedals. Tom’s brow crinkles. His eyes narrow with suspicion. 

A natural reaction for a Roy. Blood or not. Greg shouldn’t be surprised. But he is. 

Greg swallows, then gathers himself. “No--nothing,” he says. “Just--I wanted to see if you--uh, if you wanted to come to the party. You know, the one on the roof?” 

Tom releases an exhale that suggests, yes, yes, he _does_ know about the party on the roof, but _no,_ he doesn’t want to go. 

Greg watches as Tom bites his bottom lip. Really _chews_ on it. He nearly reassures Tom that, ‘no, man, it’s okay, really.” But Tom beats him to the punch. 

“Yeah, I know. I know,” Tom admits, his head hung low, like a beaten pinata. “But, come on? Does it look like I’m ready to go to a God damn party, Greg?”

Greg smiles, a sideways, half-smile. He takes in Tom's garb: boxer shorts to pair with his wrinkled button-down. “Not unless it’s a sleepover.” 

Tom stares at him. Dead-pan. Unamused. 

Greg sobers quickly, sidling out of the elevator. “Are you, uh...are you okay?” 

Tom turns away. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Jesus _Christ,_ I’m fine!”

Somewhere outside of the apartment, fireworks explode. A high-pitched whining rises from a room away. 

Greg cranes his neck to peer over Tom’s shoulder. “What the hell is that?”

Tom doesn’t answer, except he does, because he turns and leaps across the apartment to a closed-off pen. “Hey. Hey buddy,” he says, full of affection and concern. “It’s okay. It’s okay, buddy.” 

Greg squints. He watches Tom hurdle the pen and squat down. Tom collapses on top of a black-brown shadow. 

Greg shuffles closer to the pen. “Is that a _dog_? Do you have a _dog_?” 

With a great sigh, Tom stands up--to his full height. “Greg, Mondale. Mondale, Greg,” he says, monotone, unenthusiastic. 

Greg ignores Tom’s tone. “He doesn’t like fireworks, huh?”

To Greg’s surprise, Tom sags and shakes his head. “No. It’s like this every year,” he says, idly petting Mondale’s head. “I’ve tried Mutt Muffs. Anxiety jackets. Everything. I hate this _fuck_ ing holiday.” 

“Can I...can I try something?” 

Tom’s head falls to his shoulder, looking at him as if he were deranged. “What, are you Doctor-fucking- _Doo_ little all of a sudden?” 

“No,” he replies. Honestly. Doctor Doolittle, fictional or not, was a gifted fucking _gen_ ius. “I just...know some things.” 

Tom’s left eyebrow nearly touches the ceiling. “You _know_ some things?” 

“Yeah, Jesus, I fucking _know_ some things, okay?” Greg straightens his back, locks his knees. Steels himself. “I know some things.” 

In his pen, Mondale whines. Squeaks. Cries. 

It’s irritating. 

It’s so annoying that Greg lunges across the room and releases Mondale from his pen. He catches the dog in his arms. He strokes Mondale’s head. Spine. Sides. He whispers to the animal: “Good boy. That’s it. It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

Tom stutters. “Greg. Greg, what--what the fuck--the--what the _fuck_ are you doing?” 

“It’s fine.” 

“Get your hand off--get your hand off my _dog._ Greg. Greg, I swear to _God_ , if you--” 

“Dude, calm down. I’m just helping--” 

“Don’t you fucking ‘ _dude’_ me.” 

“I’m _help_ ing him. _Je_ sus.”

Well, uh, _dude_ , do you want to clue me in here, huh?” Tom tries to corral them--him and the dog. But Mondale has folded into Greg’s lap, and Greg is reluctant to move him. 

Tom closes in. “What ex _act_ ly are you doing to help him? Hmm?” 

Greg breathes deeply. He knows what is best. He knows what he should ask. 

He stares at Tom. Tom, all wide eyes and suspicion and anticipation and make-believe-macho. 

“Do you--” Greg meets Tom’s eyes and breathes heavily. “You have a closet, right?”

Tom glances at Mondale--a lump of fur huddles into Greg’s lap. “For what?” he asks, still anxiety-ridden. “The dog? Are you...don’t you fucking _dare_ think of shoving Mondale in a closet, because if you do--” 

Greg rears at the mere suggestion. “No! No, of course not! _God_ , Tom.” 

“Then tell me what the _fuck_ you--”

Greg’s patience flat-lines, and he rolls his eyes. “Look, do you want Mondale to suffer _more_? _Hmm_?” 

Tom summons an expression so murderous that Greg shrinks backwards. His breaths leave him with maelstrom-like gusts. Greg tilts his head. 

“Okay,” Tom says. “Okay, fine. Here.” 

And Tom leads Greg through the living room, up the stairs, and into a bedroom. Greg has little time to take in the furnishings and decorations before Tom throws open a door. “My closet.” 

Greg swallows and follows Tom inside. 

Mondale goes straight to the far corner, hunkering under a row of hanging dress shirts. 

Greg shuts the door. Tom flicks on the light, a faint, soft overhead bulb. Both Greg and Tom approach Mondale, who peers up at them with watery eyes and flattened ears. 

Tom seems hesitant, so Greg drops to his knees and gathers Mondale into his arms. He wraps a blanket around the dog, then strokes his head. 

Beside them, Tom falls to his knees. With a quiet voice, he whispers, “Where’d you get that blanket?” 

“From a chair in the living room. Who cares?” Greg answers, never looking at Tom. 

“ _Fuck_ , Greg,” Tom says. “Shiv will care. It’s Shiv’s.” He runs a restless hand through his hair. “She’s going to _kill_ me if she finds dog fur on--” He stops, shakes his head, and grits his teeth. “Fuck it. _Fuck_ it. I’ll buy her a new one.” Tom reaches out to pet Mondale. His entire body curves toward the dog. He closes his eyes. He bows his head. 

Greg copies him. “Yeah, that’s a good boy,” he coos. “That’s a good boy.” 

“Good boy,” Tom echoes, his hand trailing after Greg’s, from the top of Mondale’s skull to his shoulder blades. “That’s a good boy.” 

Over the muffled, quiet din of fireworks, Tom speaks to his puppy in a gruff voice. “We got this, right, Mondale? Yeah. We got this. You’re a brave puppy. Such a good, brave puppy.” 

Greg watches as Tom leans over Mondale, curls over him, nearly _smothers_ him with love and reassurance. 

Tom’s voice takes on a new, gentle tone. “It’s okay, buddy. There’s nothing to be scared of. I promise. It’s okay. It’s okay. We’re here. Me and Greg. We’re here. It’s okay.”

For a while, only the sounds of distant sounds of popcorn-fireworks penetrate the closet door. In frustration, Tom rips a shirt from its hanger and stuffs it under the door. The fireworks become ever-so-quieter. 

Mondale settles. 

Greg massages the dog’s ears. 

Tom keeps his hand on Mondale’s back. Eventually, he gets Greg’s attention when he raises his head and asks, “How’d you learn to do that?” 

“Do what?” 

“This,” Tom says, gesturing to Mondale, a calm, still puddle of puppy under their hands. No panting. No wide eyes. No fear. 

Greg hesitates, worried for a moment about the possibility that Tom might use this as ammunition of some kind. That Tom might find a way to criticize him. 

But, after a moment, Greg inhales, then releases, a full breath. “I worked at a vet’s office for a while. Just to help out, you know.” 

Tom’s eyebrows jump halfway to his hairline. “So that’s when you started taking food home in dog shit bags, I assume?” 

“No! No! I mean--” 

“I’m just giving you shit. God, Greg. Lighten up.” 

“Oh.” 

“You should go.” 

Greg blinks. “Wait, what?” 

“You should go. It’s the Fourth of July. Go to the party, okay?”

“But--”

“No. No ‘but.’ Just go. We’re fine.” 

Tom’s tone chills Greg, and he continues to blink at Tom, waiting for him to admit he’s joking. Finally, Greg nods. Tom nods. 

“Okay,” Greg says. 

“Okay,” Tom replies. 

Greg leaves with reluctance. 

He returns an hour later and finds Tom and Mondale exactly where he left them. He grins when they both accept plates of food, stolen from the party. Mini hot dogs for Mondale. A bit of everything for Tom.

After they cleaned their plates, Greg looks on as Tom snuggles his dog. “Best Fourth of July ever, right, Mondale?” 

“R-r-r-right!” Tom replies for Mondale, assuming a rough, deep, but playful voice. “Thanks, Gregory!” 

“You can call him Greg.” 

“Ruff! Greg! Ruff!” 

“Good boy!” Tom showers praise and pets on Mondale, a smile stretching across his face. 

Greg mirrors Tom’s smile and, with a genuine heart, says, “Yeah, good boy. It’s no problem, buddy. No problem.”


End file.
